


Velvet

by headlessjess



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bi-Curiosity, Dancing, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, Friendship, Gay, Jealous Sherlock, Loneliness, Love, M/M, Marriage, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Sad, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Unrequited Love, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1716137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headlessjess/pseuds/headlessjess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the day, the wedding day - John and Mary, getting married. And then there's Sherlock, in pain and in love, without knowing how to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Velvet

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to the beautiful Sophie (charlesmagnussen.tumblr.com), who won the Best Posts in my tumblr awards, and overall is a beautiful and brilliant person.

The bow moved across the strings and he was lost in the music. Note after note, a conjunct melody with velvet undertones, a waltz that drifted from the instrument and rose to the night sky. There was not a flaw in the tune, not a note missed, his brain focused entirely on the silken movements of the piece. His eyes were closed, and he was convinced this was so he could centre himself around the music, keeping it perfect... yet he could not bear the thought of opening them to see what was in plain sight. What he was still denying.

The waltz was closing, in its final thirty two bars. His mind wouldn't focus anymore, because soon he would have to see. His ears wouldn't listen to what he was playing anymore because it was a dedication to John's marriage. His heartbeat stampeded through his body and the blood was boiling, burning out his veins, setting fire to his muscles and mustering all of his strength, he forced his eyelids to separate. He turned. He looked. He observed.

They were dancing, but they weren't just dancing.

The hand John rested on her waist. The feet that moved in synchronisation. The smile that teased the edge of his lips upwards in that crooked, playful way. The fingers that locked together, tickling the nerve endings in the tips. The hair that ruffled with sweat and anticipation. The eyes that stared in adoration at her, the irises that were layered and textured with his love. The hearts that beat not together but as one.

Sherlock almost laughed at this. He was a man of a scientific mind. He saw the facts and the logic, the reason and truth. There was no... poetry. There was no feeling. No sentiment. Yet here he was, and this unfamiliar feeling in his chest felt as though he was splitting in two. Was this a broken heart? Was this what it felt like, truly?

The music ended, and John looked up at him. Their eyes locked, and neither of them smiled. It was a split second, a fleeting moment, but in it Sherlock tried to say what he thought, tried to convey the pain that he couldn't put into words. All too soon, John's eyes were back to Mary. Sherlock looked at his feet, and blocked out his feelings.

Gently setting down the violin, he stood up and looked at the sheet music. He hadn't needed it, he'd already memorised the composition and, more than that, what it meant. As some eighties band Sherlock didn't recognise began to blast through the speakers, the couple resumed their dancing, joined slowly by the rest of the guests. Sherlock however didn't join them, nor did he want too. He took the composition, meticulously folded it and placed it inside an envelope.  _'Dr and Mrs Watson'._ He remembered writing those words. He remembered fathoming the truth in them. That John was getting married. And it wasn't ' _Dr and Mr Holmes'_. It wasn't even ' _Dr and Mr Watson'._ It was  _Mrs_ , female pronoun, female person, Mary Morstan, his wife, till death do them part.

He wondered what would part John and himself. Not death, they wouldn't last that long. Unless...

No. No, that wouldn't happen. He was better now. John had made him better.

 _But he's leaving. He's getting married. He's in love. He doesn't need you. He doesn't_ want  _you. You could..._

No.

_But..._

No.

He wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't allow himself the goddamned  _luxury_ of the escape. Why should he? He should be happy for his best friend. He should see the love that he does not want to understand and he should be pleased, because that's what everyone else is, because that is etiquette, because there is no reason for him not to be pleased, but above all because that's what John would want. 

He stepped down from the stage and glanced over at John, who was dancing with Mary once more. He had lain awake last night, wondering if _they_ would dance together. Of course, they had practised at Baker Street, but then John had been preparing for his fiancé. This was different, because dancing at the wedding? That wasn't dancing with John while John thought of Mary. That would mean John's hand on his waist, and John's feet moving with his, and John's heart beating...

_Don't get involved._

Leave me alone.

_You know what happened last time._

I don't know what you mean.

_Brother mine, I can see right through you._

Leave me alone.

 _You're in denial_.

There's nothing to deny.

_You know better._

Go away.

_I've told you before and I'll tell you again..._

Mycroft!

_Caring is not an advantage._

I don't care.

_Sentiment..._

Is a chemical defect found on the losing side.

_Are you losing, little brother?_

I don't know what you mean.

'I'm sorry?'

John was in front of him. Sherlock shook his mind of the excess thoughts, thoughts he didn't need.

'Sorry, I, uh, I didn't realise I'd said it out loud.'

John chuckled.

'It's ok. Hey, look. Do you want to...'

 _Dance. Do you want to dance. Yes I do. God, yes, I do, John. I want to dance, I want to dance with you._ Silence seemed to descend upon the crowds around him and all Sherlock heard was the steady breath that John inhaled and exhaled, and all he thought was that he was breathing that same air.

'John! It's your sister!' Mary called through the crowd, above the music. The glass shattered. The noise returned. The air was unfamiliar.

'My...' John looked over behind him to a small girl, with frizzy hair tightly packed into a bun. Massive bags hung under her eyes but they lit up when John smiled. 'My sister! God!' He looked back over at Sherlock.

'We'll talk later, ok?'

There was a pause, impregnated with things that were going unsaid. Or maybe it was just a pause. He didn't know.

Say something, Sherlock. You need to reply. 

The pause extended. John cocked his head.

Say something!

'Yeah. Yeah, course. Yeah.'

John reached out as if to touch his shoulder, but withdrew his hand, and that was all it took. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as John turned and left to hug his sister, and with one last glance in his direction, turned his back on them. His eyes focussed on different people. Insignificant people.

_Chlamydia. Four children. Illegal immigrant. Pet snake. Gay._

Different deductions. Different people. Meaningless.

Molly was dancing with Tom. She looked over to him. She knew.

Janine was dancing with another man. She already knew.

Lestrade had always known.

Mycroft?

_Oh, I know._

There's nothing to know.

_Oh, really?_

Really.

_Then why are you putting on your coat?_

Leave me alone!

He hooped the scarf over his neck. He turned the coat collar up. He did up the buttons. He looked over.

They were still dancing.

 


End file.
